Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

Ben grabbed John’s knee to keep him from reacting. Bubba swallowed the second shot.

“The hell I’m supposed to sleep tonight?”

“Go on back out there,” Al said.

The third shot and a shake of his head. “Can’t. Mountain is booby trapped.”

“Okay, Bubba,” Al the bartender said, “you can sleep here, but not on the goddamned pool table like last time.” Al turned and walked away, shaking his head. “Booby traps.” As he passed Ben and John he said, “Those boys don’t know the war’s been over thirty years.”

Ben was plotting out a strategy with Bubba when he heard a drunken voice: “Hey, girlfriend, how about a blow job?”

Ben turned. One of the brutes, the biggest of the bunch, was standing there; his hand was resting on John’s shoulder. John’s face was frozen.

Little Johnny Brice had gotten the crap beat out of him at least once a week, sometimes twice. But the closest John R. Brice had ever come to a fistfight was a couple of years ago after a brain-damaged bagbiter driving a black Beemer had rear-ended him on the tollway, trashing John’s new Corvette, then offloaded his big self and called John a moron. Without considering the possible consequences, John had retorted: “I’m a moron? I’ve got a 190 IQ, a Ph. D. from MIT, and my own Internet company I’m gonna take public! What advanced degrees do you have, dude?” That had shut the dude up.

But it occurred to John now that informing this oversized meatbot standing over him of his IQ, advanced degrees, and highly successful IPO might not have the same effect in rural Idaho as it did in suburban Dallas. As a result, he was suddenly paralyzed by the familiar feeling of masculine inferiority. Little Johnny Brice looked to Ben.

“Walk away,” Ben said to the man.

John saw none of his fear in Ben’s eyes. But the cretin was too drunk to notice. He took a single step toward Ben; John knew that was a mistake. The man’s eyes suddenly bugged and he let out a guttural groan. John looked down. Ben’s boot was embedded in the man’s groin. The man crouched over, like an old man with a bad back, his hands cupped his genitals, and his face contorted with that particularly excruciating pain associated with having your balls busted. Ben stood, grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around, and gently pushed him toward his table. The man stumbled over; his giggling buddies helped him sit down.

Little Johnny Brice wanted to be a man like Ben.

Ben sat down and nodded at Bubba. “Can’t abide a rude drunk,” he said.

Bubba drained his beer, belched, and said, “Me either.”

“Your tattoo,” Ben said. “Highlands or Delta?”

“Delta. You?”

“Highlands,” Ben said.

“Green Beret?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, kiss my ass. How long was you in-country?”

“Seven years.”

Bubba shook his head. “I only got two tours. Would’ve stayed the whole damn war, but I got into a little trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Killing the wrong people kind of trouble.” Bubba paused. “Seventy-one, night op south of Cao Lanh, free-fire zone. We rocked ‘n’ rolled.”

Free-fire zone meant anything that moved was fair game, man, woman, or beast. Rock ‘n’ roll meant putting your weapon on full auto and firing indiscriminately.

“Sun come up, we see we didn’t kill no VC, only women and kids.” He shrugged. “Shit happens, man, it was a shooting war. Army discharged my ass ’cause of all the bad publicity over Quang Tri and My Lai.” Bubba sighed heavily and said, “Best years of my life.”

“What’d you do after the Army?” Ben asked.

“Went back home to Mississippi, but it weren’t the same, all that civil rights bullshit, niggers acting like they owned the goddamned place, Feds fuckin’ with us. So I come out west, hooked up with these boys, been here ever since. We got us a camp out on Red Ridge. Full squad. All Green Beret except Junior.”

Twelve men. “That the Junior kicked you out of the camp?”

Bubba frowned and nodded. “Asshole. He ain’t never even been in the Army. But it’s his mountain.”

“So what are you boys doing bunkered up in the mountains?”

Bubba leaned in close; his breath was hot with the tequila.

“We’re fixin’ to change the world, podna. Big time.” Bubba looked past Ben and said, “Your friend wants more.”

Ben glanced at the mirror behind the bar and saw the big brute approaching almost at a sprint; he was wielding a beer bottle like a club. When he raised the bottle above his head, Ben spun to his right. The bottle smashed on the bar instead of Ben’s head. Ben drove the heel of his boot into the outside of the man’s right knee; a sharp pop signaled the snapping of ligaments. The man collapsed, hit the floor hard, and writhed in pain. Ben sat back down next to Bubba, who snorted at the drunk on the floor.

“He won’t be running track no more.” He held out a meaty hand. “I’m Bubba.”

Ben shook Bubba’s hand. “I’m Buddy.”

Bubba’s face brightened. “My daddy’s name was Buddy, how ’bout that? What brings you to Idaho, Buddy?”

“Hunting.”

“Well, Buddy, we got some damn good huntin’-deer, mountain lion, bear. Killed me a fine buck yesterday. Junior, he’ll let me come back in a day or two, once he calms down about his little bitch. You wanna come out, do some huntin’, meet the boys?”

Ben gave Bubba the biggest smile he could muster.

“Bubba, nothing more I’d rather do than meet your boys. How about another shot there, podna?”

John was driving the Land Rover. Ben was in the back seat with the big dude from Rusty’s; his given name was Archie, but he went by Bubba. He was puking out the window.

Bubba had been totally shit-faced when they had finally left Rusty’s. Ben had poured a bottle of tequila down Bubba but had never so much as licked his fingers himself. Bubba had no place to sleep other than the bar, so Ben had suggested he stay with them. Bubba had accepted and climbed into the Rover.

Bubba pulled his head back inside and said, “Fuck me,” then his head fell back, his mouth gaped open, and he started snoring.

An hour later, they arrived at the Moyie River Bridge spanning the deep gorge they had seen that morning from the helicopter, where Dicky had flown in circles for five minutes, bringing John dang close to barfing his guts up.

“Pull over,” Ben said.

John stopped the Rover and cut the engine. No other traffic was on the road at that time of night. Ben got out and walked around to Bubba’s side and opened the door. He slapped Bubba semi-conscious and yanked him out.

“We there?” Bubba asked.

“Gotta hit the head,” Ben said. “How about you?”

Bubba grunted. John went around to their side of the car while Ben helped Bubba over to the bridge rail. Bubba leaned against the low railing, found himself, and starting peeing on his foot. He let out a groan of relief. Down below, white water crashing over rocks was visible in the moonlight.

“What doin’… out here?”

The cold air was reviving what was left of Bubba’s brain.

“Bubba, what kind of weapons you boys got at the camp?” Ben asked.

“Stingers… grenade launchers… napalm…”

Bubba’s words came out slurred and slow, and he was swaying slightly as he spoke.

“How’s the perimeter booby trapped?”

Bubba’s head rolled around, and he laughed. “Explosives… trip wire…”

“Girl at your camp, does she have blonde hair?”

“Unh-hunh… pretty little thing.”

“Why does Junior want her?”

“Says she… belongs with him… Says she's his…” Bubba was finishing his business. “But she’s… just pussy.” He let out a drunken laugh. “Tried to get me some, too… li’l bitch kicked me right in the